Gemotions

The roses were crimson, a blood-red promise. He had seen them on the doorstep, a package of regret. He dragged the box inside, the paper crinkling harshly in the sudden quiet of his flat. The air felt thick, heavy, as though the flowers themselves absorbed the oxygen.

He'd messed up. He knew it. The words, the things he’d said, echoed in his mind, sharp and jagged. He’d apologized, of course, but apologies felt thin, useless. He'd ruined everything.

He thought of her face, the hurt in her eyes. He couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep. The flowers were a weight, a tangible symbol of his blunder, a punishment he deserved.